was well-rounded and beautiful in its youthful grace; whose hair,
charmingly arranged above an alabaster forehead, inspired love; whose
eyes did not receive but gave forth light, who was sweet and fresh,
and whose fluffy curls, whose fragrant breath, seemed too heavy, too
harsh, too overpowering for that shadow, for that man of dust--ah! the
thought that came into my mind was of death and life, an imaginary
arabesque, a half-hideous chimera, divinely feminine from the waist
up.

"And yet such marriages are often made in society!" I said to myself.

"He smells of the cemetery!" cried the terrified young woman, grasping
my arm as if to make sure of my protection, and moving about in a
restless, excited way, which convinced me that she was very much
frightened. "It's a horrible vision," she continued; "I cannot stay
here any longer. If I look at him again I shall believe that Death
himself has come in search of me. But is he alive?"

She placed her hand on the phenomenon, with the boldness which women
derive from the violence of their wishes, but a cold sweat burst from
her pores, for, the instant she touched the old man, she heard a cry
like the noise made by a rattle. That shrill voice, if indeed it were
a voice, escaped from a throat almost entirely dry. It was at once
succeeded by a convulsive little cough like a child's, of a peculiar
resonance. At that sound, Marianina, Filippo, and Madame de Lanty
looked toward us, and their glances were like lightning flashes. The
young woman wished that she were at the bottom of the Seine. She took
my arm and pulled me away toward a boudoir. Everybody, men and women,
made room for us to pass. Having reached the further end of the suite
of reception-rooms, we entered a small semi-circular cabinet. My